The pen, it thrives inspiration.
Channelling thoughts; emotions of my being.
For if I don’t feel it the pen can not write it.
The pen writes so only I understand.
I am the master; it the slave…
A slave to my heart like fingers to a hand.
The pen is my friend.
The pen is my guide.
For the pen speaks my soul.
Drip! Drip! The sound of rain flushing another tormented soul into the freedom of death. A whip makes its tortured crack, as lacerations, so plentiful,
After creation came the poet And the poet said “Let there be darkness” And the Sun fell from the sky leaving the night And the
I wanna be hated I wanna be hurt I wanna be fated To live this life of dirt I wanna be punched I wanna be
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